Twice
by shooting-stetsons
Summary: It's been months since the letters stopped coming, almost a year since he left, and they're both starting to realize they've missed out on something grand. Rated for language and raucous behavior in later chapters. May or may not add an epilogue.
1. Chapter 1

Every once in a while, when they were in the sitting room or sitting in a café together, the busker would find that he had to reassure himself that she, Katherine, the one he had chased across the sea to find, was still there. She would feel his eyes on her, look up, and shoot him that dazzling smile that had won his heart when he was twenty-two.

Now, all he could think about was that girl he had left behind in Ireland. How, if he were to stare at her for even hours from across the room, she would resiliently continue with whatever had preoccupied her attention. She didn't need dazzling smiles to hold his attention. She needed only her gaping absence in his life.

It had been months since she stopped returning his letters.


	2. Chapter 2

The girl sometimes wondered if it would ever stop raining. The only sort of fresh air her family got was from open windows, but now that the storms were rolling in nearly every day, water would pour in from every direction. Ivanka had already caught two colds in only six months; her mother had to spend time in hospital because of how terribly she had gotten the flu. The girl and Miklos, her husband, were the only ones unaffected so far.

She walked the streets under an umbrella, still trying to sell flowers and magazines, and found herself stopping in front of the Hoover Repair Shoppe. Dare she enter and face the awkwardness of seeing the busker's father again? She didn't think her heart could take that, along with her husband's renewed indifference. Besides, dwelling on him would only lead to pain nowadays.

The busker had stopped sending her letters months ago.


	3. Chapter 3

He brought the CD to a few offices, sat across desks from men and women in crisp suits, and remembered when she was there beside him. She was a hard bargainer, that girl. She was the reason he had even gotten the loan to make the CD, let alone the album itself. He owed her so much that even the piano wasn't enough to sate his want for her to be happy.

Happy. Was she happy? Was her husband treating her alright? It was impossible to forget the tremor in her voice as she sang of the metaphorical hill she had been forced to climb only to keep her husband satisfied. He thought of the baby girl, and wondered if little Ivanka was happy with her father. Or if there was any difference at all between him and the Czech man in her young naïve mind.

The companies all thought the CD was brilliant, but where was his band? His singing partner?

And then he knew just how invaluable the girl was to him.


	4. Chapter 4

After the busker stopped writing, the girl felt as if she was once again trapped, feeling more and more like that song she had written so long ago. There was no questioning that her husband was once again blaming her for their lack of compatibility, even though she was trying her very hardest to make this work. She lay quietly in bed beside him at night, even then feeling as if she were climbing up that steep upward climb of the hill.

One night, unable to sleep as always, she got up and started cleaning. It was the only way she could keep herself busy anymore. She did dishes, scrubbed the table, swept the floor, and tidied misplaced items. Picking up a few of Mik's things, she found his drawer in their desk to be locked. For a moment, she considered placing the smelly box of pipe tobacco on top of the desk, at least until she knocked over his mug for spare change and out fell a key. Smiling satisfactorily, she opened the desk drawer, and just barely concealed a horrified gasp at what was inside.

At least a month's worth of unopened letters from the busker.

Gingerly, as if not really believing her eyes, she pulled out the handful of thick envelopes covered in the busker's untidy scrawl. How could he do this to her? How could Miklos both steal and hide her mail from her? This had been the one thing she had ever had that was only hers and no one else's. She had shared her toys with the neighbors' children and cousins, her music with her father, and her looks with her mother. Those letters had been hers, and they were now contaminated by her husband.

She pressed her free hand to her lips, feeling more bitterly angry than she ever had in her life. How dare he? How dare he intrude on this last piece of the busker she had had? And what did the busker think of her now? She could have screamed. She could have ripped open the letters and devoured them all with her eyes before taking Ivanka and her mother and running again. But she didn't.

She had to make this work.


	5. Chapter 5

He made it a priority to call his father every Friday evening, to make sure he was getting along alright without him. It had been two years since his mother had died, and four years since his best friend had decided to drown away his unhappiness with heroin. The years had been hard on his father, even if the old man wouldn't admit it. Usually, there wouldn't be much to talk about, but something seemed different after the past week.

"You haven't seen 'er, have you Da?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant. His father couldn't be fooled.

"She's been by a time or two, sometimes stops outside, but never comes in." At his son's expectant silence, he added, "She looks alright. A bit tired, but alright." George then looked up from the desktop at the sound of the bell over the door tinkling, and felt a grin split his face. "Well, speak of th'devil! Here she comes!"

The busker felt every muscle in his body scream to attention as his father's muffled voice called out "How's it? Yer Hoover fucked agin?"

"Da…" he sighed with a half-smirk. He leaned forward onto his knees, listening intently to the sound of her voice even though he couldn't hear a word she was saying.

"Tell him yerself," he heard his Da say, and suddenly there was a distinguishably softer breath on the other end. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, as if he were about to speak with a ghost. And maybe it was a ghost.

"Hello?"


	6. Chapter 6

"Is it you?" asked the busker's voice, static and too loud, into her ear.

It was like a music she had never heard before. She smiled for what felt like the first time in ages, so widely it hurt. Her palms began to sweat. "I's really _you?_"

He laughed softly. Oh, Lord, how long it had been since she had heard his voice. "Yeah, it's really me."

Her mouth gaped for a moment, still grinning stupidly, before she stupidly blurted out "Oh." The silence stretched out for a moment before they both laughed nervously, apparently transformed into hormonal teenagers upon skin-contact with the telephone.

"So, how're you? How's your ma, and the baby? And how's your…?" He trailed off before the word 'husband'. She pretended not to notice.

"We're okay," she said, finally forming a proper sentence. "You have big record deal now?"

He laughed again, and she could almost see him huddled up with his knees bent close to his chest as he sat at a window, looking down at the streets below. "Not even close. Everyone wants to know where the back-up vocalist is."

"You're lying," she insisted, though about ten times less sure on the inside.

"I'm not," the busker argued, though he didn't sound like he was arguing with her. "You should come over here, see for yourself. They're crazy for you. We could get a deal; go on tours all over the world!" He paused, as if for emphasis. "Come on, come to London."

She swallowed past the lump in her throat. "You know why I can't."

A heavy sigh. "I know."

She contemplates the silence for a moment before finally saying: "I have to go. Ivanka's playing with the vacuum cleaner parts."

His acceptance hurts even more than her longing to be there with him.


	7. Chapter 7

Speaking to the girl seemed to unsettle something he had kept smothered deep inside of him somewhat. Her voice, muffled with static from across the_ o__č__an_, had made him inexplicably homesick. He had managed to put a damper on the feeling when speaking to his father or Katherine talk about the old days, but the girl's voice had echoed from his ears all the way down to his chest and made it ache with longing. Even playing the songs he had sung with her was difficult, but only because he was singing alone.

Late that night, as he lie awake beside Katherine, he took a risk. He imagined that the woman in the bed with him was smaller and bonier, with olive skin and the hands of a pianist tangled with his fingers, maybe even curled up on her side to rest against his shoulder. He imagined that beside the bed was a white wooden crib with colorful quilts and a tiny dark-haired girl inside. He imagined that the piano in the flat's other room hadn't fallen into disrepair, that the keys' ivory shone and that the strings were back in tune. He imagined that, instead of a clear twelve inches of space between them, he had his arms wrapped securely around his companion.

With these images in his mind's eye, there was a rushing, swooping sensation of something akin to anticipation or pining in his gut; when he turned his head to his right and saw the raven-haired, creamy white-skinned girlfriend, however, it felt as if there was an enormous weight settling down onto his chest and he had to get up. Padding softly to the kitchen on bare feet, he reached into his bad, pulled out one of the CDs, and sat down at the table.

He listened to it twice, just to hear her voice again.


	8. Chapter 8

As the second winter since the busker left rolled in and hit them full-force, she knew that despite her best efforts, her marriage was going to fail yet again. She felt nothing for Ivanka's father. Absolutely nothing. And she was certain that he felt nothing for her too. The only signs of affection for her he ever showed were grunts of satisfaction at the dinner table and trying with all his might to impregnate her with the son he so desperately craved. She resented the first, only because he had horrible table-manners, but the latter terrified her. Their family was on the verge of destitution as it was; having another child would send them over the edge.

After the first call, she made a habit of going to the Hoover Shoppe every week around the time the busker would call, by utter coincidence of course. She made a point, though, of waiting patiently until father and son finished catching up, though they only ever spoke for a few minutes before George would smirk to himself and say "She's right 'ere," before handing the receiver off to her. Out of sheer curiosity (and also slightly teasing), she always started the conversation by asking if he was rich or famous yet. He would laugh then, and tell her that they both could be very soon. Then the initial awkward silence would stretch out. She managed to hide the way her teeth chattered from the cold, and dodged any mention of her husband like a professional. They spoke mostly of Ivanka, and the snow, and his music. She wouldn't allow the conversation to go any deeper. She couldn't bear to tell him that no music, not a single note, had occurred to her for months, ever since her husband had decided that a son was what would save them. She couldn't admit that the only thing keeping her going through their time apart was those few sparse minutes with him on the phone.

She donned a cheerful tone of voice and, if she wavered over certain words, would tell him she was feeling tired. Her husband didn't know much English, and so she was starting to get her accent back. It was windy outside, and she was cold. She was coming down with the flu.

She couldn't stand acknowledging the fact that she was pregnant again.


	9. Chapter 9

After only a month and a half of talking to the girl weekly, he became glued to the phone. Hearing her sing on the CD again and again was one thing, but hearing her speaking and saying different things was on a completely other astral plane. He would walk around the empty flat, phone in hand, as if waiting for a call she wasn't even capable of making. Couldn't they afford a telephone by now? But, if they had one now, why didn't she call? And why was he obsessing over it so? All he had done was imagine that—

The phone rang.

He snatched up the receiver eagerly and was almost disappointed when his father's voice spoke to him. He sighed quietly to himself. "'Lo, Da."

"You answered awful quick," said his father. He rolled his eyes, but stopped himself before omitting a response. He couldn't help noticing that things didn't sound quite right on the other end. The reception, for one, was much clearer. Besides that, there was just too much noise; people talking, people walking, the occasional beep or click, or another phone ringing off in the distance. "Where the hell are you?" he asked. His father was the sort of person not to leave the house unless he needed food, and only when it was absolutely vital for survival during the winter.

Sure enough, the old man let out a sigh rather like that of his son's. "Son, I'm in an 'ospital."

Still remembering how swiftly and silently illness had crept upon his mother, he went cold as ice. "What happened? You alright?" he demanded, forgetting all about the outside world and records and Czech girls.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," assured his father hastily, before becoming sober again. "It's not me, son; it's yer gerl, the one with the baby."


	10. Chapter 10

The girl had stood, precariously perched at the top of the icy steps to her apartment building, for a long time, contemplating if the extreme pain would be entirely worth it. There was a chance that it might not even work in her favor. A high, biting wind ripped through her, and she pulled her coat tighter around herself. The stairs were high enough, for sure, but impact was everything.

She felt suddenly and horrendously ill, and had to clench her jaw shut. How could she even be considering such a thing as this? Ivanka's bubbly laugh echoed down the stairs, forcibly reminding her of all the joy the child had brought to her life, and she wavered. She _had_ to do it. If she changed her mind and another tiny laugh joined Ivanka's, it wouldn't last long. Their budget was stretched to its limits and rent was due and _if it's another girl…_. She fought another wave of terrified nausea and tightened her hand on the rail till her already-white knuckles turned blue. What would her mother think of her if she knew? Her husband?

What would the busker think?

This question, of course, brought the strongest wrench of all. Her legs began to tremble, as she had been standing in a very particular way to keep from slipping until she had control on the situation. Why did his opinion of her matter so much? He didn't even have to find out, if all went well. And yet she could still foresee that, between herself and the busker, there could be no secrets no matter how hard they tried to keep them.

Her husband's voice, clear and strong, travelled down the inner stairs and reached her. She turned away from the sound, because she knew why the busker's opinions meant so very much to her, and her husband's so little. It wasn't that she couldn't be with him.

It was that she _could_ be with him. She could call him from his father's shop and wait for him to once again ask to join him in London, and she could accept. She could pack up herself and Ivanka and get on a plane with the rainy-day money she had been saving. She could find a place for herself and her mother to live. She could get a record-deal with those people the busker kept talking about. They could tour all over the world. She could make enough money to legally end her marriage. She could love the busker.

But something told her that she would never do those things. She was too scared. She could only wish for things to change. Just like she wouldn't force a miscarriage. She heard footsteps, and she—

"_Mami!_" cried Ivanka. The little girl was running full-tilt down the inner stairs, unaware that she could fall on the ice and get hurt. She spun around to warn Ivanka and her mother, and felt that horrible, lurching, spinning, slipping, falling, heard Ivanka scream and felt inexplicable pain.

She got her wish.


	11. Chapter 11

After the initial shock had worn off he managed to track down the number to the phone in the girl's hospital room, but a nurse answered when he called and said the girl was asleep. He couldn't help asking after her condition and what, exactly, had happened. The nurse was only allowed to reveal that she had slipped in ice and hit her head on a concrete step as she fell, but was expected to be fine. The busker thanked the nurse, hung up, and called his father back. George supported the nurse's story, but added that when he had heard and went to see the girl the day before, they had given her morphine for the pain in her head only to find out that she had been pregnant when she had a bad reaction and the baby was lost. He didn't know how to feel about that.

He tried calling her room again a few hours later, and she was awake, though she sounded dreadful. Her words were slurred and in the haze of medicine she was unable to keep her grips on English, frequently slipping back and forth between English and Czech. He did, however, manage to make out that she was feeling better. She had had to get stitches, and there was a big purple lump on her forehead. Ivanka and her mother had been by to visit earlier as well, and the doctor said she could go home in a few more days. He didn't ask her about the pregnancy, only because he wasn't even sure the girl had known about it to begin with.

When he had to say goodbye, she whispered "_Miluĵu tebe_," and sighed sadly before hanging up.


	12. Chapter 12

The girl's mother surprised her when she got home from the hospital with an old used telephone sitting on the kitchen table. She had stopped in her tracks and eyed the older woman, wondering how she had even known about her weekly conversations with the busker. But after the realization of the fact that she could call him on her own, whenever she pleased, overtook all rational thought and she decided to test it out with a call to her friend. She moved into the bedroom when her husband came home, locking the door behind her. Ivanka was sitting in her crib, having learned how to climb in and out fairly quickly once she turned two, and began to giggle gleefully when her mother came in.

"'Lo?"

"I's me."

"Eh? I thought you were goin' home today."

"I _am_ at home."

The busker's joy at her having a way to speak to him without needing to walk so far was nearly as great as hers had been. She lie flat on the bed, staring up at the ceiling and said nothing as he told her about his day, and how he had gone to yet another office that wouldn't sign him. She held her breath and waited for him to, as he inevitably would, say "Come on, come to London. Get a record deal wit' me."

It never came.


	13. Chapter 13

The busker lay on the wooden floor, staring at the ceiling and talking to the girl. They hadn't skipped a day to call one another since she had gotten a telephone, and he could tell that she always made sure to be alone before calling him. Occasionally, Ivanka would be with her, but most of the time he would hear nothing but the sound of bedsprings creaking.

After two weeks, the girl had grown very serious, asked if she could tell him a secret, and just as she was about to say something he sensed would change the courses of both of their lives, she wavered and instead settled on "I'm hungry." He had pretended to find it incredibly funny, and it became something of a joke between them after that.

One Sunday—rainy in London and snowy in Dublin—in late January, he was curled around the radiator, certain that the girl was as well, and trying to find a way to go out busking without getting wet. They had been talking and laughing together for nearly an hour when suddenly she went so silent he could hear Ivanka whining to be released from her nap early.

"I can tell you secret?" she whispered, the 's' making an unpleasant scratching noise.

"Of course ye can."

She pulled in a slow breath, and for a moment he feared she would change her mind again. But then she spat out "I-…I t'ink about London every day," as if it were a curse word, and with the strain of someone close to tears. He didn't know what to say to her that could fix whatever she was feeling. And which of two evils were he to choose? Coerce her into coming to London, convince her to leave her husband for him, or be a good friend and make her feel better? When he didn't answer her, she added "What do I do?"

He hesitated for only a moment before finally choosing neither. "Yer…yer husband. He _is_ treating ye okay, isn't he?"

As she opened her mouth to reply, she instead seemed to freeze. "One minute," she said quickly, and put the phone on the nearest surface. He heard someone else come in, a voice he didn't recognize.

"You were on telephone," said the man who could only be her husband Miklos. It was not a question.

"_Ano_." Apparently that meant "yes".

"It was your Irishman." _Her_ Irishman? Exactly how well-known was he in that house?

"_A-…ano_."

The husband seemed to contemplate this for a while. Then: "You will not speak to him again."

Suddenly the girl was shouting, screaming in Czech, stomping her feet and slamming a fist down onto the radiator and howling when it burnt her hand. Her husband shouted right back. The busker didn't know he had started shouting into the phone for them to stop until his voice broke, and on the other end there was a sudden loud 'bang' and then silence.

"_Milueś ho_?" asked the husband in a low voice. He could hear the girl weeping, but at the question she went eerily silent. Of course she remembered that day by the seaside, when he had asked her the exact same question, only this time she was being asked if it was _him_ she loved, and not her husband.

"What?!"

"You hear me. _Milue__ś__ ho_?"

He could still see her in his mind's eye from that day. How he has asked her that question and she had turned to him, eyes alight, lips curved into a smile, and had said—

"A-ano! _Ano! YES!_"

Then he knew what "_Miluĵu tebe_" meant.


	14. Chapter 14

After Miklos had left the room out of sheer disgust the girl sat alone, nursing her burnt hand and likely-bruised rib. She had completely forgotten about the busker until his voice was coming from the phone, able to hear it from nearly five feet away. He was shouting, having obviously heard the sound of her body hitting the wall after Mik had shoved her in a burst of anger.

"_Hey! Hey, are ye still there?!_" he was yelling, and finally she picked it up. She wasn't even aware of the tears rolling from her eyes until the earpiece felt wet when she held it to her ear.

"I'm here," she choked out between small sobs that made her whole body tremble.

"Did he hit you?! I said, _did he fucking hit you?!_"

"No," she lied immediately, fighting a wince as she moved the wrong way. The busker's voice was hoarse, as if he had been shouting as much as her. He was breathing heavily, obviously terrified of what he couldn't see for himself.

"You…you need to get out of there. Bring Ivanka, bring your ma, I don't care; just get the fuck over here."

"But…" she stammered, not expecting this to happen even as she dared to hope for it. "But…your gerl…the one you write the song for…"

"Are you kidding?! She's long gone!" the busker snapped at her. "I left her two fucking days after we spoke on the phone for the first time!"

In the face of his displaced anger, almost as a reflex, she flung her hand out and landed the phone onto the base with a bang, hanging up on him. For a moment she froze, appalled with herself, and then stepped away.

_You can't just_ go _to London,_ she told herself as she fetched Ivanka from her crib, now crying from all the noise. _We haven't enough money._ Though, if her mother had saved enough for a telephone, how much had she kept tucked away besides that? _But we need that money here._ She _had_ been doing well at work cleaning, and the lady who owned the house _had_ been offering her a week's paid vacation. _What are you to do when you get there? Hanky-panky with the busker?_ Play music with him. Secure him a record deal where he could have any backup vocalist he wanted. _Maybe_ hanky-panky.

_Call him back._ She couldn't. They were both angry or tired or scared, and calling would do no good for at least another few days.

In the meantime, she tended to her hand and spoke to her mother about the possibility of her getting away for a while.


	15. Chapter 15

The line went dead while he was speaking to the girl, and he panicked. She had hung up on him. Carried away by his want to scream with adrenaline and want to throttle the girl's husband, he let out a yell and yanked the phone cord right out of the wall. The cord snapped, and he swore loudly before tossing the now-useless machine across the room. How much trouble had he caused her? Sure, she had said that her husband hadn't done anything to her, but he didn't believe it for a second.

Resigned and unhappy, he picked up his guitar case and pulled on a coat to brave the rain. If he was going to make things up to girl, he would need to make quite a bit this week and fix the phone.


	16. Chapter 16

Her mother and boss had both agreed with her request, and within days the girl had a bag packed and a two-way plane ticket for London. The only reason she had omitted the information of her departure from her husband was because he had begun working until the most ungodly hours of the night in order to avoid looking at or speaking to her. Her only concern left was leaving Ivanka behind, and her mother had already insisted that everything would be fine. All that was left was to get in the air and go. And so she did.

Landing in London was much less terrifying than it had been when landing in Dublin. In Dublin, she hadn't known anyone or had anywhere to go. In London, she had a purpose.

She found him playing music on a street corner. He didn't see her. When he finished, like before, she clapped.


	17. Day 1

He could hear clapping, echoing in his mind like light at the end of the tunnel. It couldn't be more different from the night they had first met – the sun was shining and there were people all around – and yet he knew once again that things were about to change. He looked up, and it was unmistakably her, even if she did look strange in a pair of jeans below her coat. She waited until it was safe and trotted across the street to his side, looking rather nervous.

"I…I come to London," she said in that same lost, uncertain voice as when he had tried to avoid fixing her Hoover. Without thinking he hugged her; they had never really embraced, and it felt better than he had even imagined. He then saw the canvas bag hanging from her hand and nearly laughed.

"Did you just get here?" he asked.

"Half hour," she nodded, beaming. He grinned and packed up even though he had only been out for about twenty minutes. All he really knew to say was "…Cool." She followed him down the street as blindly as she had with her Hoover, and so he took her to a café, just as he had that first day too.

As she ate and he watched people pass by, instead of asking her about her interest in music, which he already knew, he instead casually stated: "I have a piano. At my place. It's old, and out of tune, but it works." The girl's spoon clattered loudly into the bowl and she stared almost blankly out the window, avoiding his eyes. He felt more than saw her tensed nerves, along with bone-deep weariness, and felt a strange sort of trepidation towards her reaction. "Been writing much?"

She looked down at the hands that became tangled in her lap, stubbornly refusing to look up at him. "No," she finally admitted with a shake of her head. "I practice a lot, after you come here, but can't come up wit' anyt'ing after that. Nothing." She went quiet and pensive for a long moment, and for a moment the busker thought of when she had told him of her father, who had committed suicide when he could no longer play the violin. What would happen if the girl lost her muse? He thought she might be wondering the same thing.

In a small attempt to veer her mind away from these things, he gently shook her arm and took her back to his flat so she could rest. The crowds were thick with besotted Valentine's Day shoppers, and she reached for his hand like a toddler to keep from getting separated from him. He glanced over his shoulder at her and smiled.

Tables turned when they got back to his flat. Almost immediately upon entering, the girl drifted like a ghost to the piano. Un-tuned and jarring, the first shaky, tentative notes of a new song began to evolve from her slender fingertips. The busker felt as if he was being a bother, an intrusion on a most intimate of moments, but he couldn't bring himself to stop watching her. After a few minutes (which was really more like 20), he pulled his guitar out of the case and began to play along with her.

They sat there together for over two hours that felt like only a heartbeat or a slow breath, building their music without words, until that was all they needed. He looked at her when true silence fell over them, the last notes fading away with a light vibration, but she didn't seem able to come up with the right words. Instead, her thin hands closed the lid over the keys, and when she turned to look at him the bright late-afternoon sun shone right through her in a beaming sort of halo. "I…" she trailed off before she had even begun, and when her small lips parted he leaned in and kissed her. It was soft, brief, no more than what one would consider a peck, but to him and her it was better than sex.

As the gap between them widened again and they blinked slowly (not having had enough time to actually close their eyes), it was as if a bubble filled with some estranged emotion grew between them as well. It was a feeling much greater than themselves, greater than anything they had ever felt, greater than God. It was even greater than music, and neither of them could vocalize what it was. She leaned over against his shoulder, hiding her face from the world, and he put a hand on her shoulder to feel her warmth.

"Don't go to a hostel tonight," he quietly said. "Stay here." It was not a question, and he felt himself tense with fear that she'd get angry with him, like the last time he had asked her to stay the night with him. Her head did duck down further, but when she looked up at him, there was no anger or trepidation there.

"Okay."


	18. Day 2

He awoke—_fully_ clothed; he might have been in love with her, but he wasn't about to knock a married woman without her permission—before the girl, and for a while propped himself up on one elbow to watch her sleep. She was sprawled out on her stomach, hugging a pillow against the side of her likely-creased face, lips lightly parted. Wearing his rumbled spare pajamas. Hair tousled. Eyelids fluttering with a dream. Gods, how he loved her. He pushed the hair back from her eyes and then finally tore himself away with a feather-light kiss to her forehead.

Stepping into the shower, he began to hum the song they had written under his breath, trying to put some sort of words to the tune. All he could think about was the night before, and how she had disappeared into the bathroom and come out wearing his old Clancy Brothers t-shirt and threadbare sweatpants he had lent her. Large, even on him, they swallowed her like the sea. They had lain in the bed that he had once shared with another woman, but after a long while he could feel the girl shivering slightly. He forgot how cold it could get at night and pulled her into his arms. Her ribs and spine dug into his chest through their thin shirts, but it only made him hold her tighter. They had rolled apart after falling asleep, but it did not quell the feeling of distinct fullness in his chest. It had felt right. More than right.

Without realizing it, he had found the words to their song.

"_Maybe I was born to hold you in these arms_…"

* * *

She woke up about an hour after he had, shuffling out of the bedroom with about eleven cowlicks in her hair. She slumped across from him at the tiny table and rubbed her eyes. "What time is it?"

"Eight or nine, I think."

Her eyes widened and her hand dropped from her face. "Bullshit!" she nearly laughed. "I never sleep d'is late."

The busker smiled and got up to pour her a cup of tea from the kettle on the stove. "You must've been tired," he shrugged as he resumed his seat. Silence fell without warning; he had a feeling that – judging by the look on her face – the girl was considering the figurative meaning of his suggestion, rather than the literal.

"I _was_ tired." A shadow passed over her face. "_Am_ tired." Suddenly her lips and eyes tightened up as she fought with something greater than herself. "_So tired_…"

The busker made a move as if to get up and comfort her, but she shook her head. This was something she had to get past on her own. She pressed her hands against her stinging eyes, hiding in the comforting darkness. Pulling herself together and swallowing tears, she raised her head and forced a smile. "I'm fine. Really."

He, in an attempt to detour her thoughts, intervened with "How's Ivanka? And your ma?" Just the mere mention of her daughter made her whole face light up with love. They talked a while about the baby (who was not such a baby anymore; she would be starting Sunday School the coming autumn), and then they talked about her mother too. Both Ivanka and her grandmother's English was improving vastly, though Czech was still the dominant language in their home.

"My mudder and I sometimes practice duets on piano," she told him as if it were a coy secret over their third mugs of tea. "And sometimes, Ivanka comes over and starts banging on the piano keys, yelling 'la la la la la!' right on key wit' us!" She laughed, but he was shocked a girl as small as Ivanka was able to detect the key of a song with her voice, let alone on the complicated keys of a piano. "I really wish my Dad could see her, you know?"

He bit his lip. He had never been good about sensitive topics like death; not to mention she had only spoken of her father once before, and he didn't know how sore the wound still was. He raised his eyebrows slightly, asking her with his eyes, and she nodded and smiled a bit to show it had been long enough for her to be past it. "So…when did he…?"

She closed her bony hands around her mug as if leeching it for warmth, brow wrinkled with thought and conflicted emotions. "Six or seven years ago, when I am 14. He was in some sort of accident, and his hands…" She shook her head and, when she thought the busker wasn't looking, touched the little golden cross hanging from her neck. Then she shook her head dazedly, and the busker covered one of her small hands with his. "He hung himself, in his study where he practiced, wit' a tape of his favorite violinist playing."

"Jesus," he murmured softly, shaking his head like a dog. To kill yourself in a place where your daughter might come home and find you…it made him feel sick. Only a moment after that thought occurred to him, however, another one did. _She was 14 only six years ago?!_ "You're only 20?"

"You t'ink I'm older?" she asked with a hint of a mischievous smile on her lips that made him want to kiss her again. Instead he turned red and started stammering to cover up and she laughed. "I'm joking. I actually turn 20 next week."

"So…when you had Ivanka…?"

"I was seventeen when I became pregnant." A blush now covered her cheeks, the stain of shame that would last forever. "After my Dad died, I…I went a bit wild, I guess."

He shrugged, trying not to feel a bit like a lech. "What's passed is past, right?" She nodded but did not smile again, ran a hand through her hair, then grimaced. He grinned. "You can use the shower if you want." She nodded again, rinsed out her mug, then scurried into the bathroom.

She locked the door behind her, and kept her back to the mirror as she undressed. Only when every stitch of her (and the busker's) clothes were on the floor did she turn and take a good long look at herself. This was how she had felt out there: naked, exposed. The busker now knew nearly everything about her, and for what? He still might as well be a stranger to her for all she knew. Why didn't he ever talk about his own mother? Where had his musical talent come from?

And just how old _was_ he, to be so shocked by her age?

There was a gentle rap on the door. "You alright in there?"

She reached over and hurriedly turned on the water. "Fine!" She showered and dressed quickly, her mind still wrapped up in the busker with confusion. And, as she stepped into the main room, another sort of unexpected ache filled her. She hadn't even been gone a full day, and she missed Ivanka so much she could cry. But instead, seeing what the busker had been doing, she laughed.

Apparently, the step up to where the piano sat had not been part of the floor. The busker had folded up the rolling platform into a sort of box, so the piano wouldn't roll off, but could be towed around with ease. The piano-box had been decorated with a cardboard sign – "The Traveling Show," – and a paper cup with "Thanks!" taped to the top.

Together they managed to roll the piano out the door into the elevator, and then out onto the pavement. They stopped at a busy street corner, set the breaks on the platform, and started playing all of the songs that fell out of them as if no time had passed since the last time they had played together. A stack of copies of the CDs they'd made sat in his guitar case, with a sign saying "10£; free if you're a talent agent."

By the time they had finished all the songs they knew, and moved to other corners and done it again, it was dark again, and they wanted nothing more than to collapse into sleep. They dragged the piano back to its place in the main room, changed into what passed for pajamas, and then fell into the bed without a word. The busker was asleep almost instantly; the girl was not so lucky. She lay still on her side, watching him and thinking about her husband.

The way she felt for the busker made her feel as though she was committing something much, much worse than adultery.


	19. Day 3

He awoke, arose, and found the girl already up and sitting at the piano. She was silent, with her hands resting on the keys but not moving. Tears were silently rolling from her eyes. He pretended not to see when he moved across the room to the bathroom, and by the time he came back out she had composed herself and was playing their new song softly. "I was t'inking," she said, "today; we go find you record deal." He nodded, and they dressed in silence.

The streets of London were even busier today than the day before. It wasn't until the busker looked in a window that he realized it was Valentine's Day, and the streets were lined with young lovers on dates or lonely people trying to keep their mind off of the day. He looked over at the girl and smiled to himself, thinking it was some sort of sign that the girl had come to be with him on this day, rather than her husband.

"So, where to first?" she asked in a businesslike tone, pulling her hair back and tying it at the top of her head. The busker pointed a ways down the street, to the first place he had gone for a record deal when he arrived in London, a large building with the image of a fist emblazoned with the word DEFY above the door; the girl laced her hand through his and started the way there. At the busker's questioning smile, she shrugged modestly and simply said: "Sex sells," before leading the way through the glass front doors. "Who did you see last time?"

"Kirsty Montgomery."

"Okay." The girl strode directly to the reception desk with him in tow and smiled at the young lady there. "Hello, Kirsty Montgomery please."

"Do you have an appointment?" asked the receptionist between phone calls. Her eyes didn't even leave her computer screen. Before the girl could answer she had already picked up the phone again.

She looked at the busker, blushing and biting her lip. "Yes; we'll just go right up. T'anks." She pulled on his hand until he followed her, whispering that they needed an appointment to go up. "Oh, come on, we're doing her a favor by letting ourselves in."

"She could be with someone!"

"Then we'll wait! What floor is she on?"

"No, we can't!"

"Why not?" she whispered conspiratorially, pulling him into the elevator. "Where's your sense of adventure?" Perhaps it was their closeness, or the mischievous spark in the girl's eyes that should have always been there, or the fact that the record label's elevator music was all by signed clients, but the busker wanted to kiss her again. To resist the urge, he punched the 3rd floor button and the doors closed just before a scruffy young man could get on.

The third floor of the building was in far better shape than the lobby, and much less hectic. There was a main waiting area in the center, and all along the walls were offices with glass doors. "There's her office, and no one's in there! Come on!" Still tugging at his hand like a child might, the girl strode to the door and knocked loudly.

Kirsty Montgomery was a stout young woman, with cropped blonde hair and wire-rimmed glasses, and when the girl knocked she looked up with surprise. Her eyes flickered over the girl like a dirty newspaper on the side of the road, but when she saw the busker she smiled knowingly and gestured for them to come in. "You're lucky I had an open slot around now," she muttered with a warmer expression than she let on. "Welcome back."

"'Lo, Kirsty," greeted the busker, shaking her hand. "This," he added, gesturing with the hand that was being held in the girl's, "is my…uh…" Was there even a word for what she was to him?

"His wife," the girl intervened seamlessly; slipping her hand from the busker's to shake Kirsty's. "And his back-up vocalist."

Kirsty's eyebrows disappeared into her short hair. "You're married now? Last I heard, you were whinging over some girl you left back in—"

"Yeah I know," the busker cut her off awkwardly, wrapping an arm around the girl's waist. "A lot of things have changed since then."

"Indeed they are," agreed Kirsty, sitting down behind her desk and gesturing for them to sit as well. "We lost Swosinski to some American label, Columbus or something like that. To be honest, you were one of the first people I thought of."

"Really?" the busker asked, leaning forward interestedly.

Kirsty leaned back in her leather chair, clearly pleased with how ardently she held the young man's attention. She smiled widely; her teeth were small and sharp-looking. "Yes, though you're still facing the obvious issues you had before. You still need a band to _become_ one, you know."

"And I've got one now," he answered testily, tapping his knee nervously with his fingers. The girl reached over compulsively and took his hand to calm him down. "I've got me, uh, _wife_, her piano, and my guitar. That's band enough for me."

"But it's not band enough for _the industry_," insisted Montgomery as if she had expressed this particular point to the stubborn man a thousand times. Within moments they were in a lively debate over the ethics of the music industry and whether or not it was more important to have a kicking band or honest intentions. The girl sat back and watched for fifteen minutes, slowly realizing that the busker would have been signed by now if he hadn't been so liable to become passionate about his music and end up being escorted off of the premises. He didn't even seem to realize that his hand was still enclosed in hers. Alarms suddenly went off in her head when the busker's tone steadily rose and then changed dramatically.

"_Well, your goddamned industry can kiss me f_—!"

"Hey," she murmured, giving his hand a squeeze, and he stammered to an instant halt. His face was flushed and eyes wide, and she very nearly laughed at how indignant he looked by the whole process. "We could always give the boys in the Lizzie band, from the demo, a call."

Kirsty gestured appraisingly at the girl. "You see? Even your wife agrees—"

"—that a band is only as important as the audience makes it," interrupted the girl without the slightest sign of hesitation. "If my husband has to have a band to be signed, we may as well go with a kicking band of some of Dublin's finest gentlemen."

This time it was the busker's turn to gesture proudly to his "wife". Montgomery regarded them both sternly over her glasses for a few uncomfortable moments, and then finally removed them. There were bags under her eyes.

"Let's take this one step at a time," she started wearily. "You both are ready and willing to sacrifice nights, weekends, and most major holidays to be a part of this record label? You'd be willing to tour across the United Kingdom? Europe? The whole world, should God's mercy shine upon you?"

The busker gave a low whistle, grinning from ear to ear and nodding already. The girl, however, was biting her lip. She scooted forward until she was sitting on the very edge of her seat, her hands folded under her chin. "I'm afraid I have a conflict with touring, at least for a few years." Montgomery's eyebrows rose again, and she leaned forward to rest her elbows on her desktop. The girl's cheeks flushed slightly as if she were about to tell a marvelous lie. "Well, I'm more than willing to be on an album, but…there are a lot of t'ings going on right now, and soon I won't be able to travel…"

From the thick winter coat that could hide anything, she put a hand over her abdomen and smiled sheepishly. The busker felt as if he had been slapped by her genius. Montgomery's eyebrows vanished again. "Congratulations," she said with a large, rather fake, smile. "I'm sure we'll be able to work things out with all that. And—now I'm not making any promises—if Swosinski doesn't come back by the end of the month, you may be expecting a call from us."

The busker was stunned speechless. It was as if an enormous flashing banner had risen up from the floor behind Montgomery, saying "YOU ARE GOING TO MAKE IT IN THE WORLD." All he could do was sit there and grin with his fist pressed against his lips. He wanted to jump, click his heels, whoop with joy, and cry all at once. He wanted to kiss the girl beside him until his lips fell off, and nothing definite had even happened yet.

"W-wow," he stammered after a good solid minute of shocked silence. He looked at the girl; she was smiling in a much more reserved way, but there was abounding joy in her eyes. He turned back to Montgomery to see that she actually looked happy for them. "T'anks. T'anks so much. Jesus!" He laughed out loud and pushed himself to his feet, pulling the girl up with him. Montgomery stood up and walked to the door, opening it up for them.

"Good luck to you both," she said cheerfully, shaking both of their hands as they left the office. On his other side as they passed, the girl whispered, "Catch me."

The busker gave her an odd look, but otherwise made no sign of her having spoken. He thanked Kirsty about ten more times before she finally closed the door. He could practically hear the girl counting to three in her head before she leaped into his arms and he caught her as if they had rehearsed it for weeks, swinging her gently back and forth. He could see Kirsty watching from her office, and knew it was all for show, to add a touching human element to their case.

He finally released the girl after a moment or two and kissed her full on the lips. "Bloody hell, you're fucking brilliant!" he praised. "Fuck! You're so fucking amazing! I love you!"

Instantly, the busker knew he had crossed some invisible line. The girl was still smiling, but only just, her eyes a maelstrom of happiness and guilt. He felt his face go red and his heart wrench. "I…_Jesus_, I didn't mean…" She opened her mouth but didn't speak, eyes becoming misty.

"Let's go," she finally forced out shakily, moving briskly past him toward the elevator. They couldn't speak in privacy because of other people there, but from across the crowded box he could see tears slipping, silent and unwanted, down the girl's cheeks. When she felt his eyes on her she swiped almost angrily at her cheeks and forced herself to stare straight ahead. The moment the doors opened she was gone, walking as briskly as she could outside to the pavement, the busker following her at a jog.

"Hey! Hey, hold on!" he shouted down the street; she was short but could walk awfully fast. By the time he reached her she had composed herself to a stony silence. "I'm not going to apologize for telling you I love you. It would be stupid and wrong and I wouldn't like it at all, okay? I love you, and I'm not sorry."

Her jaw set and eyes blazing, her tiny hands reached up and gave him a shove; he was nearly propelled into the building behind him. "You think I'm angry for that?" she asked in a dangerously quiet voice. "I'm angry because it would be wonderful to tell you I-I…love you, that I think of you every day we're apart, and that I never really wrote a song before I met you. I tried, but I could never finish one until you came along." She bit down on her lip and closed her eyes as if praying for something bigger than herself. "But…I'm married, and I can't tell you that, so I…I _won't_."

The busker looked away from her respectfully while she pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes to make herself stop crying for the third time that day. She couldn't do it, and so she just stood there on the corner of the street crying into the heels of her hands. After a few minutes the busker seemed to realize the same thing, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders to walk her back to his flat.

"I'll make some tea," he muttered as she sat down on the couch, head buried in her hands and hair swinging freely around her face. He brought her back a chipped old mug and when she finally raised her head the tears had stopped, but her skin was red and blotchy.

"_Díky_," she whispered in a broken voice. The busker simply sat down beside her, trying to find some way to comfort her when simply being around him seemed to cause her pain. She clutched at the cup with both hands as if leeching its warmth away. "I'm sorry too," she admitted. "This can't be easy for you, but…." She shook her head and took a sip of tea. "I can't leave them again, my mudder and Ivanka."

The busker looked over at her, unable to help himself. "What do you mean 'again'?" he asked.

She hesitated, her head bowed low over her cup of tea. "I told you, when I left Czech Republic for Dublin, I come on my own," she said shakily, her accent becoming stronger with stress. "I…I left all of them behind. My husband. My mudder. _Ivanka_. I was eighteen; I was scared and I left everything for Ireland. It was the worst thing I had ever done in my life and I can't do it again."

"Jesus, no one's asking you to leave!" the busker said, flabbergasted. "I would never ask you to do that."

"I know," she insisted. "I know you wouldn't. I just…let's write some music or something." With that, she got up from the couch and dropped herself at the piano bench, instantly attacking the keys with a fire he had never seen in her before. He wasn't even sure it was a real song, but picked up his guitar and jammed with her anyway. After a few minutes of abusing the ivory, the girl slammed down on a discord, seemed to realize that her troubles were not the fault of the instrument, and went a bit easier. Within a half an hour, they had developed the basic structure of another song and words were already swimming in the busker's mind.

"Just before the rain came down," he murmured experimentally; the girl looked over at him, "I…I made it to you at last…" He looked to her expectantly for the next lyric.

"Er…as for all assumptions made and questions we never asked…" She shrugged and smiled a bit awkwardly at him, looking for approval and he nodded.

"Okay switch right…_here_ – Okay, we're not where we ever thought we'd be by now."

"But maybe it's a question of how much we really want."

Unable to come up with more words, they went through this cycle a few more times before the busker switched them over to a bridge, even though words still didn't come. They exchanged an odd look, trying to figure out who was going to end it. "Have you had enough?" he sang to the girl, going along with a grin.

She smiled and shook her head. "Have you had enough?" she sang back a bit higher.

He laughed. "There's plenty more where that came from now." She raised her eyebrows jauntily, let the piano lift to a crescendo, and then with an exchanged glance they both cut off their instruments and opened their mouths.

"I know, I'm not what I promised you I would become." The girl plucked three keys with her slender fingers, and then closed on a chord. "Okay, we're not what I promised you we would be—"

The busker stopped abruptly. "Wait, shouldn't those words change? It doesn't rhyme," he said, and for some reason they both laughed.

"It's already dark out," the girl commented, looking out at the street below and scooting over into the window-seat. The busker sat down with her, sitting close enough for their shoulders to touch. He merely hummed in agreement.

"You wanna go out to a pub or something? Get something to eat?"

"No, let's stay in. I don't want to share you tonight." As she said it, her head sunk down onto his shoulder and she closed her eyes. He leaned into her, breathing her in and wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

"'Kay," he murmured, dropping a forcefully-chaste kiss to the top of her head. The feel of her in his arms, with the lights of the city on her weary young face, was extraordinary even in its simplicity. "I love you, y'know."

She sighed quietly and opened her large shining eyes, but scooted closer until she was practically sheltered under his arm. She bit her lip, fighting against herself and seeming to give up. "Oh, fuck it. I love you too."

His heart stopped in his chest for just a moment, and he hugged her tighter before getting up to make food.

That night, as a precautionary measure, the girl slept on the couch.


	20. Day 4

"So, what happens next?" asked the busker over breakfast the next morning. The girl yawned and put the kettle on, but didn't answer, waiting for him to figure it out. "Do I just wait for Kirsty's call?"

"_Psh_, no," the girl scoffed sleepily as she stretched; the night on the couch hadn't agreed with her now-sore neck. "You start calling other labels to generate interest."

"How do I do that?"

The girl sighed and looked at him despairingly, as if he were a lost cause. "Well, since Kirsty's on her way to signing you, you call another company, dropping hints that someone else wants you. They offer you a deal because they're curious. You call Kirsty; she's desperate and decides – _bam_ – she wants you, and offers you a minimum yearly salary. You call the other interested place, they offer more money. Kirsty offers more yet. They offer…I dunno, a tour bus. You call Kirsty again, she calls them, and they hash it out and you make it, big time."

"How the hell do you know that'll work?" the busker laughed, leaning back in his chair and only slightly awestruck. The girl, pleased with knowing something he didn't, smiled and shrugged.

"It's just logical, I suppose," she reasoned. "Say I asked to come wit' you on your tour, and you think—" Her face twisted into an expression of mild disgust. "—'Ugh, her?'" she asked in a bad attempt at an Irish accent. "'But she's so…bloody fucking hell…annoying, and her nose is so bloody big, and her clothes, blah! Don' even get me fucking started on those hideous—!"

"I get it," interrupted the busker, mostly because he disagreed with everything she had said.

The girl smiled sheepishly and blushed. "Right. Well anyway, you tell me 'T'anks, but no t'anks.' And, you know, I _really_ wanna go on tour, so right away I tell you 'Okay then, it's probably for the best anyway. I spoke to my husband last night and he asked me to come home to Czech Republic. I'll probably do that.'"

The busker was sickened by the very thought.

"So, right away, you t'ink: 'Wait, now why does that arsehole want her? He's been living alone for a year; what's so special for him to want her back? Is she a good cook? Does she clean house properly?" She leaned forward and quirked one eyebrow jauntily. "Is she good in bed? Well, now I gotta know. I want her. I want her on my tour.'

"So I call my husband and tell him 'I would come home, but I've been invited on tour with a grand musician, so I might go wit' him. It sounds fun.' So he, who wants someone to clean up after him again (it _was_ the cleaning, but you still don't know), offers to buy me a new Hoover if I come home. I tell you about it; you offer me two songs all to myself every night of the tour. So I call my husband and he offers to buy me _three _new dresses and a hat (by the way, I don't know _where_ he's getting all this money). You offer four songs. He offers a piano. You offer a piano too. I don't know what the hell to do anymore! But _you do_. You offer a heated blanket, and I'm sold. I go on tour wit' you.

"So you see?" said the girl with a knowing smile. "You have to generate interest and make your decision when timing is perfect, because if you wait too long d'ey will only give up on you."

"And how am I supposed to know when the perfect timing is if you're back in Ireland?" asked the busker with his eyebrows raised.

The girl shrugged. "That just means we'll need to talk on de phone much more, to train you."

"Ah, right," the busker nodded with a grin. Then he paused for a moment. "Does this mean I'll need an electric blanket to get you on tour with me?" She simply laughed and swatted his arm.

The busker pulled out his phone book and the girl went looking for the telephone. It took five minutes of searching; two significant glances at a slowly reddening busker, before she had the guts to ask: "Okay, what the hell happened to your telephone?"

"It, uh…broke."

The girl gave him an exasperated smile and shook her head. "Can it be fixed?"

"If you know how to rewire a telephone after the wire was jerked forcibly out, then yeah, definitely."

"Irish temper?"

"What else?"

That made her laugh. "Alright, let's go then. Kirsty can't call if you don't have a telephone."

There was a used electronics store near the busker's flat, and so they went there, the girl reminding him not to go for anything too flashy. "Just somet'ing cheap that will work."

"But hey," the busker argued mock-seriously, holding a box aloft. "It's a phone, _and_ a _lamp_." The girl laughed but shook her head.

"I t'ink d'is is the one."

"Oh, hey, I found one too! And it looks like it's two pounds cheaper."

"Yeah, but this one's blue."

The busker blinked at her. They were both holding boxes in their hands. "But, they're the exact same thing."

"But _this_ one's _blue_."

At the innocuous look on her face, he laughed and accepted the telephone she had in her hands, willing to cough over the extra two pounds for her favorite color. He double-checked that he would have the same telephone number with an employee before they bagged it up and took off for a pub to get some food. They were a hundred times more animated than on the first day she had been there, talking and laughing and telling stories, as if their confessions from the night before had lifted and enormous weight from their shoulders.

"…and so Miklos trips over de coffee table and breaks his nose, Ivanka is still running around wit' his fahder's war pistol, and I'm trying to keep de bird from flying in t'rough de window!" she cried, doubled over her plate with laughter. She was limply attempting to gesture with her slender hands that were shaking with humor. "Mik, bleeding all over, finally catches Ivanka and gets de pistol back, and d'en slams de window shut so hard glass breaks and we bot' get cuts all over our arms. So I get some ice and towel for Mik's nose and start cleaning glass, and Mama comes home, sees everyt'ing, and says: ''ave I missed de party?'"

They both laughed over their drinks (a coffee for her and beer for him). Just as the busker was beginning a story of himself and his best friend when they were children, a trio of men around the busker's age wandered over and clapped him on the back. "'Lo, gentlemen," he said with a grin before turning to the girl. "These are some of London and America's finest: Paul, Phil, and Tim. Men, this is my friend I've told ye about." The girl smiled and shook their hands.

"You've told us about her?" said Paul curiously. "That sounds a bit curious. Where are you from?" She could sense the hint of a joke in his voice and, sure enough, the busker's face turned red.

"Well," she started uncertainly, shyness creeping up on her. "I live in Ireland now, but…"

"Czech Republic!" guessed all three at once, laughing. The girl continued smiling politely, but looked at the busker and widened her eyes imploringly. He simply closed his eyes and shook his head. She had never seen him looking so boyishly embarrassed.

The men sat down around their table built for two, sandwiching the girl between Phil and Tim, the identical American twins that she had already lost track of. "You're pretty much famous," said one of them with a laugh.

"Our pal here never shuts up about ya," agreed the other. She looked at the busker with a teasing smile on her lips; his head was buried in his large hands.

"And what does he tell you about me?" she asked playfully.

The twins instantly opened their (rather large) mouths, but Paul interrupted them. "Can't say anything, we were sworn to secrecy." He gestured instead for another round of drinks, ignoring the girl's coffee and getting her a beer too. "You ever been to this club before, love?" She shook her head, and the men made noises of pseudo-outrage.

"I was going to tell her about it!" the busker snapped, but he was laughing a bit too. He pointed over his shoulder at a battered little stage, where a woman a bit older than the girl and younger than the busker was tuning a guitar and a bass simultaneously. "Every night the place closes up at nine, and then it becomes a hub for musicians to write songs and play some new stuff."

The girl's eyebrows rose. "No shit?" she asked, and then nodded. "Cool." A thought seemed to occur to her, and she bent low to look under the table, making the twins laugh. "You didn't bring your guitar?"

The busker shrugged sheepishly. "I thought we'd just listen tonight."

Looking at him as if the other men weren't there, she smiled and nodded happily. She loved music, but sometimes it was more fun to appreciate it than to play it. And there was a piano, so if she changed her mind later she would simply borrow it.

Soon after the busker had explained it, the daytime rush of customers began to dwindle until only about fifteen people remained in the intimately-lit room. The busker excused himself to use the washroom, and suddenly the girl was alone with Paul, as the twins had gone to set up their instruments with the woman.

"So how long are you here for?" he asked with little or no hesitation. The girl bit her lip.

"T'ree more days."

Paul nodded silently and sipped his drink, watching as the twins and the woman they were with climbed onto the all-too-unnecessary stage. The woman's dark curly hair shone in the dim lighting, and her similarly American accent set her band apart as not only visitors in the country, but the only band with a female lead singer in the pub. And yet when she opened her mouth and started singing, her voice was almost, if not just as powerful as the busker's. The girl was sent speechless, just as she had the first time she had heard the busker. It seemed as though she and the busker should have been perfect for one another, and yet some sort of vibe the woman gave off contradicted that.

"So, have you thought about what'll happen when you go?" asked Paul, a few minutes after the girl believed the conversation to be over. She gave him a confused look, and he huffed impatiently. "To be frank, the man's crazy for you, so are you leaving your husband or leaving my friend in the dust again?"

"Again?" asked the girl quietly. "I've never left him."

Paul shrugged again. "You went back to your husband."

"He went back to his gerl!" she argued. "That's why I called my husband to begin wit'!"

"And he called Katherine because _you_ told him you were married."

The girl opened her mouth to argue against him, but at that very moment the busker came back with more drinks. "She's good, eh?" he asked, gesturing to the woman with the twins. The girl said nothing, contemplating what Paul had told her while alternating between watching the busker and the band. Had all of this happened because of her? She had only been trying to be honest with him before anything more had happened with them, as she had felt more was coming. And then he had left.

"_I got lost in a sea of sunken dreams_

_While the sound of drunken screams_—"

Everyone cheered, raising their drinks, and the singer laughed.

"—_echoes in the night_.

_And I know all of this will come to pass_

_I'll be with you at last_

_Forever by your side_."

Her hands climbed quickly up the neck of her guitar, and when she sang the chorus her voice intentionally cracked. It could have filled a room fifty times as big as the one they were in now, and yet this was where they were stuck.

"_Time keeps burning_

_The wheels keep on turning sometimes_

_I feel I'm wasting my days."_

Discreetly under the table, like a pair of teenagers, the busker took the girl's hand.

"_How I've missed you_

_I just wanna kiss you_

_And I'm gonna love you 'til my dying day_

_How these days grow long."_

The song came to a riotous end and everyone clapped and cheered as the trio jumped off the stage. The busker and Paul waved them over immediately, obviously already good friends with them though the girl had never even heard of this woman, and they all crowded around the tiny table. The singer's bare arm (she had strange symbols tattooed on both of her shoulders) pressed against the girl's; she smelled of whiskey, but it was more of a perfume than an odor. She ordered the next round of drinks with a wave of her hand and then smiled at the girl a bit shyly. "Looks like we're kindred spirits in here, huh?" she laughed. "Nice to meet you."

"Same."

The singer grinned; there was an endearing gap between her two front teeth. "I'm used to hanging out with the twins all the time, but usually a room full of women is never too far away, y'know what I mean?" The girl nodded and smiled, but she really had no clue.

"You 'ave an amazing voice," she settled for instead.

The singer's forehead creased; apparently she was having trouble understanding the girl's accent among the din of the pub. "Sorry hun, what?"

"Your voice," repeated the girl a bit louder. Now able to understand, the singer brightened a bit. "It's really good!"

Grinning bashfully and simply oozing earnestness and warmth, the singer slapped a bony hand on the wooden table. "Well, thanks!" she said brightly. "You gonna do some singin' later?"

Without thinking, the girl exchanged a look with the busker. He shrugged, and she turned back to the woman. "Not sure, maybe."

The singer's eyes went from the girl to the busker, realizing that they were a double act, and her eyes lit up. "Oh! It's _you!_ I've heard about you! I knew you seemed familiar!" The girl laughed forcibly and looked at the busker.

"How many people have you told about me?" she asked with a shocked smile.

The busker grinned a bit sheepishly. "Enough to make you feel welcome if you ever came to visit," he admitted, and she laughed out loud.

There were shushing sounds around the room as the next act moved up onstage, a skinny and bespectacled young man with a violin in his hands. When he tried to speak, his voice cracked, showing his youth. "This, um, is a song I've, uh, been practicing for a while now, so, uh, I thought I'd play it for you. Yeah." He shakily raised the violin and bow and, to all of their surprise, played fluently and expressively in all the ways he could not speak.

The girl was blown away, by not the boy, but by the song. Before realization had even hit her there were tears stinging her eyes and her hand had forced its way out of the busker's. As subtly as she could, she slid from her chair and moved briskly for the women's loo, leaving the table's occupants behind her looking around with confusion and the busker looking worried.

The women's room was small and dirty and the door creaked as she opened it and slammed shut with an echo. She leaned over the lime-stained sink's rusty faucet, her right hand pressed against the dirty mirror. Breathe. Steady. Pull together. Hold on. Not here. She moved her hand to cover up the reflection of her face, shutting out the world from behind her eyelids.

The door opened and closed and the girl didn't move, already knowing who it was and why she was there. "You know, you're way too young to be looking at yourself in the mirror like that," the singer said with obviously forced nonchalance, leaning against the wall and tucking her hands into her pockets. In the silence between them the violinist's song swelled and the girl threw up in the sink at the sound. "Christ, you okay kid?" Her hair was lifted from her face only a few moments too late, but she appreciated the gesture regardless.

The girl reached blindly for a paper towel and scrubbed at the inside of her mouth with it to be rid of the taste. "I 'aven't heard this song in six years," she finally forced out as the singer wetted a few more towels and used them to clean the front strands of the girl's hair. Her hands were thin and bony, like the girl's, but warm and soft in contrast. "I was sick last time, too."

She was unable to say anymore on the subject, and the singer seemed to understand and simply remained silent as she waited for the girl to look up. When she wouldn't do it, the singer gently took her hand and pulled it away from the mirror's cold surface, and with her other hand tilted her chin up until they were looking at their own reflections. The singer's eyes and hair were dark and shining, her skin glowing with a healthy tan even in February. The girl was pale and wan with an olive tone to her skin, her eyes gray and hair dull dishwater blonde. So different, and yet in their bone structure alone they could have been sisters.

"You want me to tell him you're sick? I'm sure he'd take you home," the singer gently said, resting her chin on the girl's shoulder. She shook her head emphatically without explaining why.

"This song is nearly ten minutes," she laughed bitterly after a minute or two of silence. "You can go back out there. Is really a good song, you should hear it."

"I'm fine right here."

And so they stood there in that dingy little bathroom for the full eight and a half minutes of Kubelík, staring into their own reflections and both wondering what decision had been the one to lead them here. The girl led the way out when it finally came to an end and everyone went wild for the boy's talent. The busker's eyes were on her before she had even gotten close to the tiny table, and she smiled at him, tucking her damp hair behind her ears. The singer acted as if nothing had occurred, and for that the girl was grateful.

The busker and girl did not, in fact, perform together that night, but the girl watched as he went up and played Knocking on Heaven's Door with Tim and Phil. She leaned against the wall, cradling a pint of beer against her chest, and smiled whenever he looked at her. For a while, she even forgot about everything she had left behind in Dublin. It was a good feeling that she attributed to the drinking, and so she drank.


	21. Day 5

Everyone flooded out of the pub around two in the morning; the singer and the twins walked along the pavement with the busker and girl, pleasantly buzzed and listening to the transistor radio on Phil's belt.

"_It's really fucking cold!_" the busker yelled the moment they stepped outside the pub. A few people walking home across the street shouted their agreement, and they all laughed. "Why is it always so fucking cold in winter?!"

"Because it's _winter_," the singer pointed out slowly.

"How drunk are you?" the girl asked him with a laugh. The busker mock-glared at her, but then seemed to realize that he was, indeed, quite drunk.

"Drunk enough to act stupid and reckless, but not drunk enough to use that as a real excuse," he grinned. Then he nudged the girl's shoulder with his own, the plastic bag containing his new telephone bumping against her leg. "How drunk are _you?_"

The girl laughed and shook her head, but seemed to really think about it. "Drunk enough for my accent to come back, but no' drunk enough to forgive myself in morning for what I do tonight. Pretty much de same."

They exchanged a tipsy glance but said nothing, simply traipsing along as the radio's tiny speaker crackled halfheartedly in the dark.

_Break me out tonight_

_I wanna feel the sun rise in anywhere but here_

_Come with me_

_This could be _

_The only chance we get_

_We've gotta take it_

_If we don't do this now we'll never make it_

_Lose this crowd_

His hand brushed hers in the dark, and their eyes glittered as they looked around at the singer and the twins, and then smiled at one another.

_Break me out_

Without warning they took off running, hand in hand down the icy sidewalk with the other three laughing and chasing them like it was a game, and all the busker could think was to _hold onto this moment. You'll never be this young again._

Then the girl started to slip in the ice, screaming with both fear and laughter until she fell into a small drift of snow. "Are you okay?" the busker asked through gales of laughter. She was covered in the fluffy white stuff, her hair tousled and eyes a bit dazed. She seemed unhurt, but wasn't laughing. Instead she mutely raised her arms and he lifted her out of the snow, and then into a piggyback ride.

"Where are we going?" she asked wearily, her chin digging into his shoulder comfortably and one hand in his hair.

"Home."

"Okay."

They passed the airport on their way back to his flat, and just when he was suspecting she had fallen asleep on his back, the girl slid her way to the ground and was breathing fast as though she were horrified. He touched her shoulder but she flinched away. "Miklos?" she called out, and then the busker looked farther ahead of them and saw a man sitting on the pavement outside the airport's parking lot. His head rose at the sound of his wife's voice and he stood, swaying in the cold. The girl ran ahead of them all toward her husband, her good heart winning over her own fear of confrontation.

"_Miklos, proč jste tady_?" she asked, her light hair blowing behind her as she jogged to meet him.

The busker had never seen the girl's husband before, and it was strange to imagine such a bearlike man to be with such a small young woman like her. He was at least a foot taller than his wife, with dark glittering eyes and broad shoulders. And yet there was something about him that, at the moment, didn't seem very frightening at all. He reached out one hand and touched his wife's face, as if testing if she were real. "I-I come to find you," he said in obviously broken English.

"_Chtěl jsem se vrátit."_

"_Neřekl jsi mi, že jsi chtěl."_

"_Nechtěl jsem, abyste za mnou!"_

None of them knew what was being said, but the busker managed to get the gist of it when he started shouting and gesturing toward the airport while she hit his chest. He hardly moved an inch even when she put most of her weight behind it. He said something that sounded sharp and bitter no matter what language it was in, and she slapped him with all of her strength and it barely left a mark. Then he reached up as if he were about to do the same, but the singer, busker and the twins all took a step forward to intervene and the couple seemed to finally remember they weren't exactly alone.

"_Prosím. Jen se mnou mluvit,"_ said Miklos quietly.

She regarded him silently for a moment, and almost instantly the hostile mood shifted, leaving behind only a man and a woman who had loved each other once and loved their daughter and wanted to turn this sinking boat around.

"_Prosím_," he pleaded again, one hand reaching out tentatively. The busker watched her shoulders slump for a moment before squaring up, and she nodded and took his hand. Her husband pulled her into his arms, and for the first time in months around her husband the girl felt safe and loved. With little effort she was able to pull away and she drifted back toward a crestfallen and hurt-looking busker. Shame and guilt made her turn her eyes away from his.

"I _'ave_ to talk to him," she half-stated and half-pleaded with him. "As long as he follows me, if I say no, then _I_ gave up. _I_ called quits. I can't…" Her eyes begged him to understand even as she sensed him closing himself off. She grabbed his arm in her hand and squeezed it lightly.

"What d'you want me to say?" he asked gruffly. "I'm not okay with this; if you stay with that arsehole you're gonna get hurt, and I won't always be here when you get scared and run away." He stopped and blinked a bit dazedly. "I really must be drunk; I didn't mean to say anything like that."

The girl closed her eyes and fought the urge to hold him while her husband was watching, but slid her hand down his arm and into his, squeezing that instead. He squeezed back gently. "I'm coming back," she promised. "I'm not gonna leave tonight."

Reluctantly, he let her go, she waved goodbye to the singer and the twins, and then she walked at her husband's side down the street, speaking quietly in Czech. They vanished around a corner and the streets were silent with the ache of her absence in his chest.

"I'm goin' home," he told the singer, Tim, and Phil, and took off toward his flat without waiting for a response.

It was 3 am. He had intended to stay awake until the girl returned, but the combination of drink and the long day bogged him down, and he slipped in and out of wakefulness on the couch until well past dawn. The morning bloomed cold and gray, the sort of morning where none too many folks could be caught dead outside, and still the girl hadn't come back.

He paced up and down the length of the tiny flat, looking out the window for a sign of her, murmuring songs he had written with her under his breath, and thinking about—three guesses who?—her. He couldn't banish the sight of her in the darkness, running blindly toward the man she had been considering divorcing for the past five days, from his mind. The hunger and longing on the face of her husband as he confronted the woman he had claimed not to care about living for a year without. They had been lying to each other and to themselves, simply because their reunion had been fuelled by her meeting another man, falling in love with him, and seeing him decide to go back to an old flame of his own. The timing wasn't right, but their intentions were.

His neck hurt, he was tired and hung-over, but he found himself as inspired as she apparently had been by him going back to Katherine. Without really thinking at all he picked up his guitar and his notebook and his tape recorder, and he wrote their song in the gloomy gray light of a new day.

_I wanna take you to New York_

_I wanna pull back the veils and find out what I have done wrong_

"I _have_ missed you," he finally admitted softly over the table at the only café open this early in the morning. "It's been a long week without you."

The girl smiled, closed her eyes, and shook her head before looking down into her coffee. "I've missed you too. I've missed the way things used to be." After a few moments' thought she looked back up, eyes glimmering with a sort of disbelieving humor that couldn't be described. "Were we ever really happy together, or was it just easier than being lonely?" she asked with a sad little laugh

_I wanna turn this thing around_

_I wanna meet you somewhere out there in this cold, cold, cold town_

Mik reached across the table and covered her small hand with his. "We tried too hard to blame each other for losing our dreams that we didn't try to be happy. Then we blamed each other for not trying."

The girl seemed to accept this as what was as close to the truth as possible, running a finger over the rim of her mug. She bit the corner of her lip and then, as if it had been torturing her for months, she forced out: "I'm sorry you had to quit your training. I know how much you hate your job." He simply shrugged.

"I'm sorry you had to quit school," he said in the same way. "You're really smart; you could have gone far." She shrugged back, knowing immediately what she really wanted from him if she were to go back.

_And we'll be low rising_

_Because we've gotta come up from this, we've gotta come up_

_Low rising_

_Because there's no further for us to fall_

He had just fallen asleep again, sprawled across the couch with his guitar on his chest and his tape recorder still running on the floor, when the girl came back. He had left the door ajar when he returned that morning, and so she let herself in and was caught between smiling and crying when she saw him lying asleep. She put her bag on the floor by the couch and knelt there, watching him. She pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her head there, reveling in the quiet darkness before the storm.

_Low Rising_

_Until we feel we've had enough_

"Huh?"

There was a muted bang of hollow wood on the floor and the gentle thrum of his guitar strings vibrating, and when the girl raised her head the busker was there in front of her and he put a hand on her shoulder.

"Hey, are you okay?" he asked her. She blinked a bit dazedly – apparently she had fallen asleep – and nodded her head. The busker held her under her arms and pulled her up onto the couch. "What happened? Did you even sleep?!"

She shook her head this time, still trying to bring herself back to reality and laying her head on his shoulder. "We talked a long time. Got a lot of t'ings sorted out," she murmured into his neck, making his skin tingle with warmth, and he held her tighter.

"So what…?" he began to ask but couldn't finish. He instead pressed his mouth to the top of her head and closed his eyes. She sighed and closed her fingers around part of his shirt, clinging closer to him than she ever had before. She hadn't said the words, but everything about it rang like a death knell.

"I…" she pulled herself even closer to him, and he held her tighter as she started to shake with emotion.

"It's okay," he whispered, stroking her hair. "It's alright, I know. You don't have to say it."

"I do," the girl insisted, backing away and out of his arms altogether. "I 'ave to or it won't be real." She put her soft, slender hands on either side of his face, already crying as she looked him in the eyes. "Mik and I talked about everyt'ing: getting married so young, and having Ivanka, and all of this mess, and…" She sniffled and looked away for only a moment. The busker covered her hands with his shaking ones.

_All for the love of you_

"Tomorrow, Miklos and I are going back to Dublin," she said, her voice slow and even as the busker's head started to spin. So that was it, then. He was going to be alone for the rest of his life. "I'm gonna go back to school, try to finish this time, you know?"

The busker couldn't help but drop his head into his hands. "Christ."

She bowed her head and stared down at her hands. "I wanted this, being here wit' you," she said through fresh tears. "But how long would we 'ave lasted? If all of this has happened in knowing one anudder for only a year, two weeks in person, then how long will it take for the fire to burn out? I…I just…how old are you?" The busker looked up at her with a furrowed brow. "Where's your mudder? What made you love music so much? Why do you know so much about me but I don't know you at all?"

He had no answer for her. He wanted so badly to be angry but couldn't muster up the energy for it. "Will this make you happy?" he asked wearily instead. "Is he gonna treat you better?"

The girl nodded and wiped her eyes.

He touched her chin and she looked up at him. "Then why are you still crying?" She shook her head, hiccupping, unable to answer only because she didn't know why herself.

"I asked him…I asked him to 'ave today wit' you," she said thickly. "I wanted to say goodbye here, not wit' him watching."

The busker clasped his hands between his knees, secretly glad that she had chosen this for them, if they were never to see one another alone again. "When d'you go?"

"Tomorrow morning, at nine."

He nodded silently. "And he won't be comin' 'round looking for you until then?" She nodded hesitantly, but then looked at him with more meaning in her eyes than had ever been present before. "So…what're we gon—?"

The girl craned her neck and kissed him for the first time, her hands reaching up to hold his face. It burned like sin on his tongue, but not enough to make him pull away. "No music," she murmured against his lips, "no husbands, no children, no parents, no age. I want today wit' _you_." She was crying again; her tears dampened his face as he leaned back and she moved down with him. He knew within moments that he was lost to her; he would never have a wife or family simply because he wanted it only with her. There would be no russet-haired children to sit with him as he lay dying years from now. But it was alright for the moment; he was content to die right there with a beautiful girl's lips and legs entwined with his. His gut was churning and palms sweating as if he were twenty years old again.

He pulled back suddenly, pressing his head into the sofa cushion, and looked the girl in the eyes. "I'm 33," he admitted like it were a deadly sin, slightly out of breath. She smiled.

"You don't—"

"Me ma died two years ago, a-and I only ever started playing guitar because me best friend did to get girls an' I was fucking jealous. He lost interest and I fell in love with it."

"Why're you—?"

"My friends know about you because when I got back with Katherine I was completely crazy about you and didn't even know it. I never stopped talking about you," he laughed quietly, brushing her hair behind her ear. "I was so humiliated when I realized I was in love with you that I stopped talking to 'em altogether. For six fucking months. Only Paul was left when I finally got off me arse and apologized."

"What about—?"

"Tim and Phil and all them are only visiting. I met 'em after I left Katherine and went crazy over you again. They're goin' back to Seattle in a few weeks."

He gingerly touched her hair again; it was smooth and almost blonde in the afternoon light filtering in through the window. "I'm 13 years older than you," he said softly. It felt suddenly and inexplicably wrong to be sprawled across the couch with a nearly-20-year-old woman lying on his chest, who was looking into his eyes with an impish smile. "What's so funny?"

The girl folded her hands delicately on his chest and rested her chin upon them, still smiling. "Mik's 38."

There was something so genuinely reassuring in the way she'd said it that he felt no fear at all. He smiled back at her, and she quirked her eyebrows as if to ask 'May I continue now?'

The first time was what one might call sloppy, and fast; she tasted of coffee and pipe tobacco, he of cheap beer and dust motes. After, they lay together on the rug with an afghan covering them and their arms keeping one another warm. "Is this wrong?" he asked.

She whispered, "No," and moved closer. "I didn't wanna go t'rough my life not knowing you this way. It's perfect."

They watched the sun as it began to sink in the sky, red as blood and blinding, and, the events of the past day finally seeming to catch up to them, drifted to sleep in the place where they belonged.


	22. Chapter 17

The girl woke on and off through the late afternoon and evening, dreams scattering about. The boy at the pub had been playing Kubelík's song that he had written for the love of his life when they were going through a rough patch. It had been the song playing when she and her mother had arrived at home to find her father dead. It had been echoing through the whole house. At her mother's cry of horror she had just _known_ and run out to the yard and vomited in the snow. Hearing it there, she thought, had been some sort of sign from God or her papa. Perhaps she had been doing something right in leaving Miklos after all. But then Miklos had been there, and perhaps it had been a sign for her to simply try harder?

There were so many things she had wanted to tell the busker before she left. She had been listening to him busking at night for weeks before finally gathering the courage to talk to him, and she had been embarrassed to only have ten cents in her pocket at the time. How she had spent months after his departure sitting by Ivanka's bed while she slept and wishing her husband wouldn't love his daughter so much to keep fighting for the wife he didn't even want.

All her life she had thought that two people were meant for each other and no one else, and when she met Miklos she had thought he was her soulmate; after she had left him for Dublin and met the busker, she realized it was hard to tell when you only find the right person once.

She rolled over into the busker's chest and he pulled her tighter and all she could think was _hold this moment in your heart forever. There will never be another. Not with this man. Not with Miklos. Not ever._


	23. Day 6

When they were both awake and alert, The busker helped her track her things down from around his flat until her duffel bag was full again. When she was in the shower, he tucked the Clancy Brothers t-shirt and tape he recorded the day before into the bottom under all her clothes. Then, all the was left was to sit on the couch together until nine, when a knock came to the door as promptly as if Miklos had been out there waiting.

The busker opened the door and stepped aside to let the bigger man in; he halfheartedly glared at the busker before bending down to kiss his wife in a show of male dominance. "You are ready?" he asked the girl, and she nodded and picked up her bag, but turned to the busker instead of moving.

"You'll call me when Kirsty does?" she asked, her eyes shining with unease and sadness that she couldn't bring herself to openly express, and he loved her. She was the girl who said 'when' instead of 'if'. She was the girl who, even with her own dreams fading, believed ferociously in the dreams of others. She was _the girl_.

"Before anyone else," he assured her with a shaky forced smile. He wanted so badly to hold her one last time, maybe flip Mik the bird as he did so, but it was bound to turn into much more than that.

She seemed to be thinking the same thing, her arms unnaturally stiff at her sides. Then, with a teary smile she reached out her hand. He shook it; it was frighteningly formal for a goodbye.

Miklos didn't even bother looking in the busker's direction as he guided his wife out the door, but she kept her eyes locked on his over her shoulder, smiling sadly, until they met the stairs at the end of the hall and vanished. The busker leaned against the hallway wall, already missing her. He looked over his shoulder into his flat; it looked massively empty without her there now.

"Oh! _Nechal jsem za sebou něco! Jen do toho, budu doháně!_"

By the time the busker could look up for the source of the shoes clomping up the stairs, the girl had already rounded the corner, her face white and tears in her eyes, and was running his way. He opened his arms just in the knick of time to catch her as she flung her arms tightly around his neck. They said nothing, for nothing needed to be said.

"Have a safe flight," he murmured huskily as they pulled apart, thumbing away her tears.

She nodded and blinked away her emotion like a professional. "You too." Then she blushed, realizing the mistake of what she had said. "Er, t'anks." He forced himself to grin and shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from grabbing her and kissing her lips off, and she began to slowly back away toward the stairs again. _This is your last chance to say something moving and profound._

"_Miluješ ho?_" he asked, joking sadly.

She stopped at the top of the stairs, half-hidden around the corner and smiling. "_I love you._"

And then she was gone, for real this time, and it didn't hurt nearly as badly after her parting words.


	24. Chapter 18

He woke up at 5 o' clock and couldn't go back to sleep and so he lie there watching her. She was impossibly young when asleep, one hand curled like a leaf under her ear and her hair tangled around her un-creased eyes. Her lips bowed upwards in the hint of a natural smile. Why could he never see it when she was awake? He wrapped his arm securely around her and buried his face in the crook of her shoulder. What was he to do when she was gone? What would happen if Kirsty didn't call? Or worse, what if she _did_ and he went on tour without her?

There were still so many things gone unsaid between them. How he had dreamt of having her in his arms and bed when he was with Katherine for the second time, and that was what made him unable to live without her. How he had held her in his arms that first night and wished never to let go. How hearing her and her husband argue over the telephone had made him want to kill the man she had married. He hadn't even liked her the day they had met, when she had only been able to fork over ten cents. He had hated how she had been able to get the truth of his failed relationship with Katherine out of him when even his father had been unable to. He loved her more now, however, than he had ever loved Katherine, and he had almost married Katherine once.

How, when they were apart, he had filled three notebooks full of songs for her to hear and to sing with him. What if she never heard them?

The girl sighed softly in her sleep and rolled over so her eyes were buried in his chest, and he had his answer.

He would hold onto this moment he had with her now, put on a brave face, and he would endure.


	25. 3 months later

3 Months Later

The girl had been getting home later and later since she had started night school. Tonight, however, she was finally on time; she had finally gotten caught-up in Maths after staying after for help every night for a week. It was past midnight now, she having gone for a quick after-class drink with a few of her classmates, and everyone was asleep. She turned on the radio with the volume set low on her favorite station that had DJs at all hours of the night.

"…And that was the Traveling Ghost Tour Band, with their new song Dying Day. Really lovely," praised the DJ, and the girl cursed that she had missed it. She'd been thinking about the singer and the twins quite a lot since meeting them in London, and found herself sore for the older woman's warm companionship. "And now, we've got a real treat right from Dublin for our late-night listeners. A song by London's newest rising star, an allegedly one-man band called Fitzcarraldo. The CD was hand-delivered to us by young Fitz himself, and he asked if, since we're the first station in all of the UK to play it, we would read a message with it."

The girl quirked her eyebrows thoughtfully as she pulled the kettle off of the stove before it could whistle. She could faintly hear Miklos snoring, and Ivanka was making a disgruntled sound at all the noise. She turned the radio up just a little bit as she stirred her tea at the table.

"…And here it is! From handsome young Fitzcarraldo himself! 'Hello Ireland! As this is the first song sent out on the airwaves that wasn't sent by a smelly busker on the corner of the street, I would like to take a moment to dedicate this momentous first song to a girl back home in Dublin. Now, you're probably spittin' mad at me right now, so hopefully this'll make it up to ya, love, because this song isn't mine. It's yours, my song-writing partner, my back-up vocalist, the birdlike muse flitting onto my shoulder, and my very dear friend. Listen close, love. From, Fitzcarraldo."

The girl looked up from her mug sharply, her hands instantly beginning to shake. Surely not…? He hadn't called her! But then, surely enough, the beginning strains of _her_ piano and his guitar started up and tears sprang to her eyes.

_So,_

"_Miklos! Mami!_" she shouted, and even though it was the middle of the night she turned up the radio all the way, laughing.

_If you ever want somethin'_

Ivanka was, oddly, the first to come out, rubbing her eyes but running to wrap her arms around the girl's legs.

_You just call, call, and I'll come running to fight_

Mik and her mother came next as she picked up Ivanka and reached for the phone at the same time, nearly dropping it twice. Her mother clapped and smiled when she recognized the busker's voice, yelling about her Handsome.

_And I'll be at your door _

The girl turned to her still-half-sleeping husband and told him that she was the one playing the piano there. He smiled widely and squeezed her shoulder in a supportive gesture as she dialed the phone.

_When there's nothing worth running for_

"Are you listening?" asked the busker the moment the phone clicked to life.

_When your mind's made up_

"You lying bastard!" she half-laughed half-cried into the phone. "You never called me!"

He laughed. "I wanted it to be a surprise! Are you mad?"

_When your mind's made up_

_There's no point trying to change it_

"No," the girl insisted, pressing a hand to her grinning lips. There, looking out the window to the southeast, with the busker in her ear and Ivanka over her heart and her mother and husband at her shoulders, she finally felt the glimmer of hope she had been waiting for all her life.__

You see  
You're just like everyone  
When the shit falls all you want to do is run away  
And hide all by yourself  
When you're far from me there's nothing else

When your mind's made up  
When your mind's made up  
There's no point trying to fight it  
When your mind's  
Your mind's  
Made up  
There's no point trying to change it

_So  
If you ever want something  
And you call, call_

"I'll call when it's time to record an album, okay?"

"Okay."

"Cool. I love you."

The girl looked at her husband, who had taken Ivanka and started dancing around the flat with her in his arms. "You too."

_Then I'll come running._


End file.
